


Broken People

by DemonKitty (Trick)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Star Trek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-17 21:51:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trick/pseuds/DemonKitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft has an offer for Sherlock: Space.  He accepts, eagerly – but.<br/>A rewrite of the history and future of Benedict Cumberbatch's character from Star Trek: Into Darkness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Offer

**Author's Note:**

> Divergence happens after season 1. Sherlock and John get married, and presumably live happily and solve cases for a while. Then this happens.

They thought they could make a superhuman.

Perhaps they were right.

They thought they could make me more than I was.

Perhaps they were right.

They may have even truly thought they were doing me a service.

If they did, they were dead wrong.

~

John returned from work one day with the smallest of frowns on his face – one which stayed there, even as we exchanged a now-customary quick kiss. I could guess why. “You've spoken with Mycroft.” Given how late he was, and the frown, it was rather obvious – and even aside from normal deduction, I had come to know my husband rather well.

He didn't bother asking, just nodded absently, heading into the kitchen to make tea as usual. He was clearly still thinking about whatever had happened, but I wasn't desperate to ask. I was busy setting up an experiment to investigate the influence of lemon juice on human eyes, and was more than content to keep working uninterrupted. “He wants to see you,” John said suddenly.

I raised my eyebrows. “Does he, now?” That in and of itself wasn't terribly unusual, really, but it could hardly be Mycroft's usual brotherly nonsense if John was mentioning it. Was Mummy unwell? No, Mycroft probably would have said something to John, and John would be going about this conversation in an entirely different way. 

“He said he's got an offer to make you.”

“Probably some stupid government case,” I muttered, though I wasn't entirely sure. There were several other possibilities – and a _case_ wouldn't have John acting like this, either. Not unless there was reason to believe it would be particularly dangerous, anyway, and considering what we usually did, that would have to mean quite a bit of danger. Well. That could be interesting, at least. “What did he say?”

He didn't respond right away. When he did, it wasn't a direct answer. “Did you know that there are parts of the government above him?”

Now my interest was certainly piqued. I put down the pipette, keeping my eyes on the litmus strip, which was turning a satisfactory shade of red. “I've suspected as much, but never with any confirmation.”

“Yeah, see – it's not an offer from him, it's an offer from them. Through him.” His feet shifted – he had turned to face me. 

I looked up at him for a moment, scrutinizing his face. The frown which was still there, his knit brow, that particular look in his eyes. “You're worried.”

“I'm used to the idea of your brother being all-powerful, or something close to it, even if that's a bit weird. I'm not used to the idea of there being people above him. I mean – definitely not like this. Even if I'm not entirely sure what 'this' is.”

“Hm. So did he say anything about the nature of the offer?”

“He said they wanted to do you a favor.”

“But you're still worried.”

“I don't know what's going on, Sherlock, and even Mycroft doesn't know all of it. Of course I'm worried.”

“He probably knows, he's just not telling,” I said dryly.

“No, I think he really doesn't know. You didn't see him, Sherlock – it was like he was caught between excited and scared. I think you should talk to him.”

I put a cover on the eyes, crossing to John, kissing him. “I'll see him tomorrow, then,” I said, pulling back slightly. “I'm sure it'll be alright. Probably just a particularly dangerous case with some special reward, or something.”

“I hope you're right,” he said, before pulling me into a deeper kiss.

~

The tea wound up brewing far too long to be really palatable, so John, with a sigh, grumbled that I could use it for an experiment – yes, including the cup, if I _really_ had to. He wasn't truly upset, of course. I knew him too well to think he was, and it certainly wasn't as though either of us regretted the past hour.

_~_

“Sherlock.” Mycroft looked up from his desk. “Sit down.”

“I'll stand. What's the offer?”

Mycroft sighed. “As I'm sure John has told you, I don't know many of the details myself.”

“But you know more than you told him.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Explain.”

“There are – forces beyond my power, Sherlock. People who are doing things even I cannot see. But I have reason to believe that the ultimate goal is space exploration, or something of the kind, and that they are looking for individuals such as yourself to go through training and, well, go into space, and attempt to come into contact with alien life. Apparently progress in such areas is significantly farther along than I had previously been led to believe, though how they could hide an advanced _space program_ is truly beyond me.” He sighed. “I'd want to go myself, honestly, but – legwork.” He gave a twitch of a smile.

It was difficult to process what he was saying, simply because it was so gloriously unexpected, so impossible, so _wonderful_. Space. Going into space, meeting _aliens,_ the chance to do experiments and learn things which no one else could have even imagined – but the question I'd come into this with still hadn't been answered. “John gave me the rather distinct impression that you were worried about this. Why?”

Mycroft sighed. “I am, though I suppose in many ways I shouldn't be. If you accept this offer, you'll be a pioneer. You'll be coming into contact with alien races, quite possibly, and it's hard to know whether or not they'll be friendly.”

“That's hardly different from my usual line of work.”

He smiled slightly. “I suppose not. You're interested, then?”

I smirked. “Obviously.”

“Then let's begin right away.” That wasn't Mycroft, but a new man stepping into the room, one who had two cats and a teenage daughter. “If you'll follow me, Mr. Holmes?”

“One moment. I-”

“You shall have plenty of opportunity to contact your husband later, Mr. Holmes. For now, please come with me. There are certain things which must be done before we can move forward.”

I hesitated an instant longer, then swept after him.

_Space!_

~

A uniform. A near-military haircut. 

The man who gave me the uniform had had a hamburger for breakfast – probably leftovers. No, something his young son had rejected the night before. Ketsup on the collar, lettuce stuck in his teeth, hardly difficult. 

The woman giving me a haircut was being abused by her husband. Surely anyone could see that; her makeup didn't quite hide it.

I was impatient – I knew there was going to be some sort of training, but I wanted to get on with things. _Space!_ Doing experiments in zero gravity, encountering aliens-

Then came the needle, and a fog over my thoughts which quickly dragged me under.

Even that instant was long enough for me to know I'd been played for a fool.

~

My world was a haze. From brief catches of conversation, I could just barely register the passing of time – not hours, but days, weeks, then months. Wires, sensors, monitors – and needles. Lots of needles. Drips. Injections. Painkillers. There was often a distant, foggy pain in one place or another, and I guessed that they were doing some sort of surgery. Once or twice, I got my slow, befuddled mind to go as far as formulating a few steps of an escape attempt – rip that needle out first, trip him with a cart, dodge around her – but I never had a chance to do anything before I went under once more.

~

More needles, more monitors, one thought which kept coming back no matter how foggy and uncooperative my mind seemed.

 _John_.

~

When I awoke for the first time, I screamed. I didn't stop screaming, thrashing against the bonds holding me to the hospital bed, until they had me loaded up with sedatives. Then they began to explain.

The name Sherlock was stripped from me. I was given the name Khan Noonien Singh – after someone the man talking to me had met in war, apparently. That's what he wanted me for. War. The mission was still to go into space, but our goal was to gather information, conquer where possible, find planets and moons which could be used for resources, whether they were inhabited or not. Genocide was permitted, so long as we kept it quiet from those on Earth.

Permitted. Like it was something I wanted to do, like I'd just been waiting for permission. 'Oh, goody! Genocide!'

I wanted to puke.

~

There was so much more room in my head, now, so much more _space_. I'd been screaming out of panic, surprise, fear, and shock at waking up with so much more in my head than I was used to. I knew my head, I knew what should be there, and that wasn't what was there anymore.

I couldn't even fill it all with thought, not really, and so I had to start dealing with _emotions_. Missing John. Being angry at those who had taken him from me, who said I would never see him again. Angry at those who had tricked my own brother into bringing me into this, who had tricked _me_ into this. Angry at those who had changed me, made me into something I was not, shouldn't have been. I didn't _want_ so much emotion, it was useless, pointless, _stupid-_

They took everything from me, and expected me to work for them. Even though I had rarely had to deal with such intense emotions before, it didn't take long for them to settle into two very distinct feelings.

Longing for John,

And _rage_.

~

I controlled my rage, of course. It filled me, seemed to fill my very skin to the point that I was brimming with it, but I never spilled over. They considered their work a success. I even feigned some degree of appreciation, when I realized that this was what was expected, though surely they'd already known enough about me to know that I was not a man given to expressions of gratitude. I was introduced to others, my crew-to-be, all of whom had undergone the same process I had, many reacting differently. 

There was River Tam, a fifteen year old girl who apparently possessed some odd 'psychic' abilities – I guessed that she was simply abnormally perceptive, though some of the things she muttered to herself seemed beyond even that, perhaps simply veering into psychosis. 

Alpha, a blond young man who seemed to have simply filled in the new space in his brain with additional personalities – I counted, once, and there seemed to be at least forty nine separate individuals within him, though he seemed to have some form of an overarching self.

Donna Noble, a redheaded woman in her early forties, who seemed to be one of the few individuals chosen for the process who had been, to start with, almost boringly normal. She was now, of course, quite intelligent, though sometimes she seemed to simply – _glitch,_ like a computer repeating an image on a screen when you try to move a window.

Faith, a twenty year old woman who had been chosen for her prior athletic ability. While she seemed somewhat unhinged now, it didn't seem quite as bad as some of the others – though of course, she might simply be controlling it. Like me.

A blond thirty year old who insisted on being referred to as the Master, though apparently he'd been given the name John Simm. I couldn't say I was displeased – I didn't particularly need anyone called “John” around. Something had gone wrong with the physical enhancements we had all gotten, leaving him with an enormous appetite – truly ridiculous in scope, he ate at least five meals for every one the rest of us took.

Doyle, a relatively pleasant Irish man who seemed to have come out alright, save occasional flashes of debilitating migraines.

Jack Tyler, who like Alpha had come away with multiple personalities – though in his case, only two, as different they might be from each other. He had to be restrained, sometimes, or he would start beating himself up.

And they were the seven meant to be my chief officers. I stared at the group, wondering who each had been before, what had been taken from each of them, what their names had been before all of this. That we had all come away with our own problems was clear enough – I had gotten off easy.

And under the rage, but in no way lessening it, I felt – pity? Compassion? Some urge to protect and care for these people, who had had the same wrong done to them that I had. These were my _crew_. With John gone, and Mycroft, and the others – this collection of broken people was the only family I had left, and now that mattered to me in a way it might not have, once.

These were my people.

~

Now came the training Mycroft had spoken of – training for space. Months of learning our way around the ship which had already been built for us, learning our positions. Alpha was to be Helm Officer, Donna would be Chief Engineer, Doyle would be Communications Officer, Faith was the Weapons Officer, River was the Science Officer, and Jack, ironically enough considering his violent streak, was the Chief Medical Officer. I was allowed to chose my First and Second officers from among them – I chose Doyle for First Officer and Donna for Second.

“Where's The Master?” I asked, frowning, when I was alone with one of the officials of – Starfleet, it was called. We were aboard the ship – almost all of our time was spent on the ship, now, and our first launch into space would be in a month, just a simple orbit-and-reentry mission. Starfleet had been revealed to the public two months before, though without our names or faces attached to it.

The official coughed, cleared his throat. “The Master's appetite was deemed inconvenient for space travel.”

“So he'll be staying here.”

The man didn't respond, but there was a slight twitch-

“You killed him, didn't you?” I whispered. _Rage._ Already filling me every waking moment, now beginning to boil. “His appetite was _inconvenient for space travel_ so you _killed him_.”

“It was necessary, Captain Singh. I'm sure you understand.” His voice was shaking slightly.

I seized him, gripping his head between my hands. I knew my face was twisted into a hideous mask of rage, and just this once I was almost glad John wasn't there to see me now. “You tore a man away from his life, mutated him, and when it went wrong you killed him.” 

“Captain-” His eyes were widening, and I realized that with my augmented strength, I was slowly crushing his skull. I found that I didn't care. “Captain Singh-”

“He was my _crew_ ,” I snarled, and seconds later, I had killed him.

Swiftly, I cleared the scene of evidence, washed my hands, and returned to my bunk aboard the ship. All seventy three – seventy two, now – of us had similarly augmented strength. Some, like Faith, were stronger even than I. Every one of us would be a suspect, but they wouldn't be able to risk revealing their lack of control over us by accusing anyone without proper evidence – and they would find no evidence, I was certain of that.

Which left me alone with myself, and my thoughts.

I couldn't go back to John, even if they let me. That much was clear, now. I knew people had seen me as scarcely human, before – now it was _true_. Now I was the killer Donnovan had accused me of being. I had killed a man. His blood had been on my hands, and _not_ because I was investigating the crime scene. I had, in fact, hidden the evidence well enough that I – my former self – would likely have been unable to solve the murder.

I wasn't even on the side of the angels, anymore, was I?

I certainly wasn't Sherlock Holmes, anymore. Sherlock Holmes was a man who killed only out of necessity – because sometimes it was necessary, in his line of work. A man who could feel, and love, but rarely allowed emotion to show, or to control him.

I was Khan, now. I had just killed a man out of pure rage. I knew I would do it again, too, put in a similar situation. If I had goals to reach, I could and would meet them, but those around me – particularly those who were not of either my crew or my previous life – had best step carefully.


	2. Our New Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And they call _me_ crazy.”

Perhaps they did know it had been me. They never said anything directly to me, but when I was in my bunk a week later, a letter was slipped in to me. I frowned, opening it – and felt like I had been stabbed, when I recognized the handwriting, and saw the slight wrinkles which indicated patches of paper which had been dampened, then dried – tears.

_Sherlock,_

_There's some guys here saying this might be my last chance to write you for a while – that you're going to be going up with the Starfleet crew. I barely know what to say. I haven't heard from you in months. Mycroft could only tell me that you'd agreed to whatever offer you got from those guys, that you'd be back 'sometime', or that he thought you would be – even he doesn't know. These guys coming over was the first reassurance I've had in months that you're even alive. I guess they're keeping you pretty busy with the space thing._

_I love you, Sherlock. I just want to write that over and over, like it would make up for all this time, but it wouldn't – not for me, anyway, I still don't know exactly what goes on in that head of yours. Just come back when you can, will you? God, I miss you. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson do, too, in their own ways. I think Lestrade's keeping a file for cases he wants you to look at when you get back – you won't have time to be bored again for at least a few weeks, I figure. And Mrs. Hudson just keeps asking after you, and promising I don't have to worry about paying your half of the rent._

_We're all hoping you come back, though I reckon you'll have a great time up in space and whatnot. I just miss you. So much._

_I've still got that tea, by the way – sealed in an airtight container or it would probably be stinking up the flat, but I figure you'll probably find something to do with it when you get back. I had to throw out the eyes, though. Sorry._

_I love you, Sherlock._

_Your husband,_

_John H. Watson_

My hands were shaking slightly as I finished reading. I almost wanted to tear the letter to shreds, this new reminder of what had been taken from me – instead, I slipped it back in the envelope, then put it into my drawer. I closed my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. It would do no good to lash out. I just had to remind myself of that whenever I could. Remind myself that this meant at the very least that John was alright, that he hadn't gotten dragged into any of this. I suspected that the letter was a warning from Starfleet, though – a hint that they had access to him, possibly even that they _would_ do something to him if I didn't cooperate as they wished.

“Sher-lock...” It was River, talking in her odd, singsong way, just outside. She opened the door to my bunk – I hadn't locked it. “You got a letter, didn't you?”

“Don't call me that,” I said sharply. “Where did you hear that name?”

She smiled, walking into the room, poking me in the forehead. “Papers have faces all over them,” she said. “It's you, isn't it? The consulting detective.”

“Not anymore,” I said flatly. “That's over.”

A shadow crossed her face. “They took it,” she whispered. “They took it all, took everything.” 'They' meant the Starfleet officials, the people who had done all this, who were sending us into space.

“Yes,” I said, “they did that to all of us.”

“They're going to bring it back,” she said, as though this were normal conversation and not another of her odd riddles. “But it's going to hurt. You shouldn't go looking for it, Sherlock.”

“Don't call me that,” I repeated, trying not to snarl. I only partially succeeded.

“But it's your _name_ ,” she said, poking me again. “Sher-lock.”

I swatted her hand away. “Don't, River. I'm Khan. Not Sherlock.”

River opened her mouth to argue, but Donna poked her head in. “Khan? Thought you should know there's going to be lunch crunch punch bunch bench trench wrench stench staunch haunch-” she stopped, leaning against the doorframe and taking a shaking breath. “Sorry. I'm trying, I promise.”

I grimaced. “It's hardly your fault.” Donna gave me a look which said that I wasn't entirely helping – I was used to such looks from John, and it caught me off guard for a moment. Then I shook my head. “They did horrible things to all of us, I don't think anyone came out of that in one piece. I also don't know whether it's reasonable to expect to recover.”

“You seem alright,” Donna said bitterly.

I snorted, my mouth twitching in a hint of a humorless grin. “Not at all, I can assure you.”

“Well, what's wrong with you, then?”

“Everything's broken and burning inside, and ice doesn't help.” That was River speaking, not me. “Ice pushes at the cracks, makes them bigger and bigger until nothing is safe.”

I blinked, a bit startled. Donna looked at me. “Well?”

“Close enough,” I said. I didn't know what River meant about ice, but broken and burning did seem to describe the loss, the fiery rage. “Anyway, Donna, you know I don't eat lunch.” I ate dinner most of the time, and occasionally breakfast. Lunch just got in the way of things – it was an interruption.

“That's the thing,” she said. “They want you to start. Start eating lunch, I mean.”

I stared at her. They killed the Master for eating too much, and now they wanted me to eat more. “How very... considerate of them.”

Donna frowned, but I was looking at River. The young girl seemed to understand plenty of things she had no reason to know anything about. Whether she had asked, herself, about the Master, or simply guessed, I had no way of knowing, but one way or another, she gave a small nod.

“Starfleet says jump,” Doyle said from the doorway. “Come on, then, Khan. Time for lunch.”

I scowled, rising. “It's a waste of time and energy,” I said flatly, heading past him. “I've managed perfectly well until this point; why they should feel the need to change anything is beyond me.”

River caught my arm. “Don't go looking,” she said again – then, “I need to get back to the lab.” She turned, hurrying off.

“Looking for what, exactly?” I called. She didn't answer.

~

River never mentioned ice again, never gave her cryptic warning not to go looking for 'it', even though I started spending a good deal of time with her in the lab. She talked about other things which didn't make sense, certainly, and about things which did – she was rather brilliant – but never ice, never warnings. No warnings aside from the usual sort of lab partner conversation, anyway.

“Sher-lock,” she usually used Khan, but sometimes switched to my birth name, usually in that same singsong voice, “I don't think that's a good idea.”

“What? And don't call me that.” She never said it when someone was in earshot, but I still didn't like the name, and certainly didn't need the rest of the crew finding out who I was. My name was rather well known, even if my face wasn't, at least not to the same extent. And besides – I was Khan, now.

“You're making chlorine gas.”

“Yes, I am.” She didn't say anything, just gave me a look which very clearly said that she thought I was being an idiot. “Look. Chlorine works by damaging the respirator organs. We have regenerative capabilities. Inhaling a small amount should not do me any serious damage.” I went to the computer, pulling up a spreadsheet I'd set up. “Seeing as there's a chance I'll be somewhat incapacitated, I'll need you to be the one to take notes. Ready?”

She moved to the computer. “Ready,” she said. “And they call _me_ crazy.”

~

I wished there were things I could break, aboard this ship. The urge was there inside me, the impulse, the need to destroy, stemming from my rage. Sometimes I found myself considering killing someone else, letting off steam through murder. I felt like a bomb, waiting to be set off. Like a monster lurking in shadows. Waiting.

I did _not_ feel like an observer, like I had no control. I had been fully, ruthlessly in control when I killed that man. I had known I was crushing his skull, and I had not stopped. It had not been an accident.

~

I found Jack in his bunk, that evening. “Do you want to keep beating yourself up, or do you want to fight?” I asked bluntly.

“I don't want any trouble, Captain-” he started, quickly.

“You're not in trouble. I just need someone to spar – full contact, preferably – and I thought you might be interested. It's not like we're going to feel it tomorrow,” I added. We had all been made stronger and more generally durable, and we had regenerative capabilities – something I rather wanted to test more thoroughly, sometime, beyond just chlorine gas. What it meant now was that we could probably fight one another, full contact, and be fine by morning. I sometimes wondered why we needed a Chief Medical Officer in the first place – there weren't going to be any regular humans with us when we went into space.

He blinked. “Yeah, sure.” He grinned slowly. “Where?”

~

Jack wasn't the best of fighters – I had significantly more training than he did – but he was already starting to improve a little by the end of our first hour. We'd quickly reached an unspoken agreement to fight to the point of injury, wait a few minutes for it to heal, then start again. When I broke his nose, he was quick to set it – set it himself, which I had to admire – before it could heal badly. It wasn't healing quite as quickly as softer tissue did, though, and we agreed to stop there for the day. I did have to wonder what would have happened had he left it as it was – regenerative capabilities couldn't mean that broken bones would set themselves, surely. Could it?

It did help – the fighting. Throwing a man across the room, hearing a grunt of pain and seeing a bruise begin to form, or a cut open – it satisfied some primal, rage-driven urge for destruction, even if the damage was healed within minutes. The pain of being beaten helped, too, in its own odd way.

Distantly, I knew that this was hardly a solution – that it was no more than a band-aid, a temporary fix – but it _helped_. It felt _good_. And so Jack and I returned every night, and fought, and bloodied one another, and shouted. When we were done, we headed to the mess hall for drinks – nothing hard, there was never anything hard on board and I was hardly a heavy drinker, but I didn't mind a glass of wine, and he always grabbed a beer. We talked a little – usually about the fights, evaluating our moves and even laughing at the better moments – and then parted ways, heading to bed.

~

“Hey, fellas.” Faith found us one day, about a week in. “Can I play?”

Jack glanced at me, and I nodded.

It actually made things a bit easier, having a third person – when Jack had to step out, for example, Faith and I could keep going until Jack came back in – and then I stepped out, and they went on.

Faith, it turned out, had had some martial arts and self defense training, so she and I were roughly evenly matched. Jack sometimes complained light-heartedly that we were ganging up on him. That wasn't true, of course, and he knew it.

The group expanded. Other members of the crew started joining in. Some fought, others – including River and Alpha – just watched. Sometimes we brawled – everyone fighting one another at once. Sometimes we split up into pairs or groups of three. Sometimes only one pair fought at a time, with everyone else watching and shouting.

During our second orbital mission, three months later, River joined in. It turned out that she'd learned quite a bit from watching us, and that she had a degree of grace and flexibility which even Faith couldn't match. I made sure to pair off with her, unable to keep back a twitch of a smile as we fought. She was fantastic – and I had to be doing pretty well myself, to land even the blows I did manage.

I really was turning into a savage. A savage who delighted in good combat rather than unskilled brawling, but a savage nonetheless.

~

I wasn't bored, at least. It was difficult to be bored, with a spaceship under my command, a crew of – rather fascinating – broken superhumans, and access to a lab. I did miss my cases now and then, but that was just one more thing to be angry about, one more thing Starfleet had taken from me.

Now and then I took out the letter from John – now laminated, it wouldn't do to have it get wet and be lost – and read it over again, or occasionally just looked at John's handwriting and thought about what it said about him. Figured out where he might have paused for thought. I could picture him writing it, with the faceless Starfleet officials nearby. He would have finished, and given it to them, and they probably swept out without a word, or maybe with a brief, empty good-bye.

It was a good thing I'd gotten it laminated, really. A piece of paper would be too easy to crumple into a ball, or shred, in a destructive mood – too tempting. Instead, I usually dropped it to the bed beside me and headed out of the room, looking for something to do, or at the very least someone I could punch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is written but, again, needs editing. While I work on that - do you all want to see Star Trek: Into Darkness as told from Khan's point of view? Or not so much?


	3. Objection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm sorry."

“Do you think there are more of us?” Nathan asked one day. He was the only other man assigned to the medical bay. Like Jack, he had two personalities. Unlike Jack, the two were somewhat similar, except for one being somewhat violent and bloodthirsty. From what I understood, that was why he was second to Jack, despite having more medical experience – his more violent self still recognized authority, and so Jack could keep him in check if need be. “More superhumans, aside from those of us here on the ship?” We were in the mess hall, and he wasn't talking to me, but to some other members of the crew whose names I hadn't yet bothered to commit to memory. I was sitting alone, as I usually did, but that hardly meant I wasn't listening.

“What would they do with them?” another man asked.

Nathan shook his head. “I think a better question would be, what _wouldn't_ they do. So far as I can tell, not one person _on this ship_ came out of that – experience – alright. What if there are some who did make it, and they're somewhere else, being used for something else?”

“You think we're the rejects.”

“It seems possible.”

“Oh, please,” I said. “The only probable way of avoiding such difficulties would be to create the superhuman as a fetus, even a zygote. The damage is almost certainly caused by the conflict between the pre- and post-operation self and capacity, a sort of PTSD effect from a brain which has no idea what to do with the drastic change.” I considered for a moment. “Or, alternately, to take the procedure slowly, though I'd imagine that would have a lower success rate than raising the child from birth.”

Nathan was nodding. “I suppose that makes sense,” he said. “But how do we know they haven't already started doing this, themselves?”

“We don't _know_ ,” I said, “but considering they seem to be finding use for us as it is, there's a strong likelihood that they won't want to put in the immense amount of extra time and effort for what is, in effect, only a minor improvement, so far as they are concerned. Simply using us would be far easier.”

“That's business thinking, though,” the woman pointed out. “They apparently want us for war – and in war, having the greatest advantage is more important.”

I shook my head. “They want us for a war with the goal of obtaining resources,” I said. “Business and profit is clearly the goal – why else wage war on those who haven't attacked us, anyway?”

“We've been turned into corporate tools, is that what you're saying?” the man asked.

“Roughly.”

~

I killed another man. This one was guilty of no more than having interrupted me at a poor time – specifically, while I was working in the lab, after a night without fighting and a day stuck in another pointless meeting with the higher ranked Starfleet officials.

They had to know it had been me. The man had almost certainly been sent to fetch me or give me a message of some sort, and so even depositing his body elsewhere in the ship and cleaning up the blood and every trace of physical evidence I could find couldn't possibly be enough to deflect suspicion. 

But they said nothing – a full week of nothing.

It crossed my mind that they might simply not care – that so long as those in the upper ranks, those who controlled everything, were safe, they didn't care whose lives were lost. Perhaps we were just too valuable to them – _I_ was too valuable to them – for them to kick me out, or get rid of me.

It crossed my mind, too, that if I wanted to get out, attacking said higher-ranked officials was probably the surest way to do it. The officials I was sent to meet with now and then, once a month at the least.

They were so very human, after all.

~

Two weeks after I killed the second man, there was still nothing. I was, in some ways, tempted to kill a third simply to find out whether they would react. Instead, I took a walk through the bowels of the ship, the hallways which were lined with storage rooms. Jack and I had considered this area for our fights, when it was just the two of us. We didn't know how Starfleet would react, and this was somewhere we might be able to meet in secret. As it turned out, the space was too cramped in most of the rooms, particularly once Faith joined us, and even with a few dozen people involved Starfleet still didn't seem to care. So, we'd started simply pushing aside the tables and chairs in the mess hall to make room, a few hours after supper.

This also meant that it was one of the few areas I had yet to entirely familiarize myself with. I wanted both to complete my knowledge of the ship, and to find some sort of distraction, something to _do_. River was in the middle of an experiment of her own, in the lab, and had asked not to be interrupted, so there I was.

Lunch had just ended when I reached the end of the stretch of rooms Jack and I had already looked at – room A300 was the last one. I started with B001, going inside, scanning the contents – packaged food – and committing them to memory. Then I left, and headed to B002.

About two hours later, I found that B221 was locked. I didn't have my lockpicks on me – I would have to make new ones, actually, it hadn't occurred to me without a need for them. So I examined the lock briefly, then continued to B222. I rather expected that it might be locked as well, but it wasn't – neither was B223 or B224. I reached the end of that hallway, B300, by dinner, and started on the next hallway after breakfast the next day. C001.

~

There were ten hallways in all. I got to the end of J within the week. B221 was still the only locked door. I returned the day after I finished J, now armed with lockpicks. I got in relatively easily, switched on the light, and blinked.

There was only one thing in the room – a long tube, roughly seven feet long and three feet high. The outside, at least, was made of something white – plastic, I guessed – with a glass panel on one end, frosted over. Some sort of refrigerator, perhaps? The rest of the room was entirely bare – and B220 and B222 had been unusually packed, so it was likely that whatever this was, it had been moved here more recently.

I approached the tube. There was a digital thermometer on one side, reading 77.15 – but there was frost on the glass, so it couldn't be Celsius or Fahrenheit. Kelvin, perhaps – but that would be -196 Celsius.

Interesting.

I used one of my lockpicks to scrape at the ice covering the glass, then peered inside, wondering what-

My eyes fell on a sleeping figure, and I felt like I'd been kicked in the chest.

_John._

-77.15 Kelvin – the temperature used in cryonics. They'd frozen him – maybe even on the same day they'd asked him to write that letter to me.

I'd thought he was living his life – that he might even be happy. Studies had shown that people who won the lottery weren't as happy as they'd expected to be, in the long run, and that those who lost limbs weren't as unhappy as they'd expected – that happiness returned to a sort of base line after a while. He knew I wasn't dead, knew I would come back if I could – I couldn't, but he didn't know that. At the very least, I'd thought, he was _alive._ This wasn't life. He might not be dead, exactly – not permanently – but this wasn't life, he couldn't be happy – he couldn't even be dreaming.

B221. 221B. Somehow the idea _didn't_ hit me over the head like a hammer, and I realized that I had made the connection more or less as soon as I'd seen the door. Thinking it was next to useless, I'd just filed it away in the recycle bin portion of my mind with other useless trivia. If I hadn't – if I'd guessed – would it have prevented this? This pain in my chest, physical pain, like I'd been stabbed, or like something had been pulled out of me?

Because I knew Starfleet didn't intend to bring him back. If they did, they wouldn't have put him here in the first place. This was a backup, a just-in-case. They'd meant to kill John Watson, but he was important to me, so maybe they should just sort of kill him. Kill him, but with the possibility of bringing him back later.

I closed my eyes. 

_John._

_I'm so sorry._

~

“Khan?” It was Jack. “What the hell is this place?”

“Get out,” I snapped.

“Khan-”

“ _Get out!”_

He left.

I stayed where I was. With John.

~

“Khan, it's been two days.” That was Doyle's voice. 

“Get out.”

“Have you even eaten?”

“I'm not hungry.”

“You need to eat.”

“I'm not hungry. Leave. Or at least be quiet.”

He walked slowly into the room until he was standing beside me, looking down at the glass. “God. I'm sorry, Khan.” He'd guessed who it was.

I closed my eyes. “They could have let him live,” I whispered.

“I'm sorry.”

~

There were four more weeks left until my next meeting with the Starfleet officials. 

I did not 'calm down'. 

I did not 'feel better'. 

I did not 'get over it'.

I got a gun from Faith four weeks later, telling her it was for an experiment. I hid it under my coat. I walked into the room with the six Starfleet officials

and

I

shot

every 

last 

one.

~

It didn't help me feel any less like there was a gaping hole in my chest. I hadn't expected it to. I'd simply done it.

~

I closed my eyes to sleep that night.

~

I opened my eyes, and blinked up at a white ceiling. It was quickly blocked by the face of an older gentleman. “You're awake. Excellent. Could you tell me your name?”

“Khan,” I said, guardedly. Something was distinctly off. “What's going on?”

“I'm Admiral Marcus of Starfleet,” he said. “You've been asleep for quite a while.”

Something about his tone, his expression – I hardly needed to consciously register the signs anymore, the deductions came so easily – told me more than his words did. “I was cryogenically frozen.”

“You're as intelligent as the records suggest.” He smiled. “Wonderful.”

I rather wanted to strangle him, but as it turned out, my wrists were firmly shackled to the bed I lay on. So were my ankles. “Explain,” I gritted.

“From what the records indicate, you or one of your crew murdered the six highest ranking Starfleet officials at the time. You were at the top of the list of suspects, but to be safe, you and your crew were all frozen that night – a backup plan which had been put in place after the first murder aboard your ship. The notes accompanying the log strongly suggested that you not be brought back, but – well. Starfleet has changed, Captain Singh. The space program went ahead, but with the mission of exploring, rather than making war – such plans were apparently limited to those six, who would have profited the most.”

“And yet you brought me back, even though you must know that I was – created – for the purpose of war.”

He sighed. “In the course of our exploration, we have come into contact with several alien species. One particular species are known as Klingons. They are rather humanoid in shape, but – they are a race of barbaric warriors, and I fear war may soon be upon us.” His tone implied remorse, but there was a gleam in his eye.

“So you want me to help. Why should I?”

“I could offer you a substantial pay.”

“That hardly matters to me.”

“Are you sure? I don't think you'll like the alternative as much.”

“What alternative?” I was growing impatient.

“That you work for me in exchange for the safety of your crew, all seventy two of whom are still frozen, and in my – care.”

Seventy two. Not seventy one, but seventy two. Which meant that John was one of them.

I closed my eyes. “I accept,” I said, at last.

“Excellent.”

“Why me?”

“I looked over the profiles for the crew. You're both intelligent and savage. Not to mention – apparently your blood has regenerative properties. Powerful regenerative properties, of the sort which, I'm sure you'd agree, we mustn't let the public know about for fear of ensuing chaos. In short, you're perfect for war.”

~

I complied, or at least kept up the appearance of complying. I researched, and designed a ship. I designed weapons. And then I took the prototype photon torpedoes, found my crew, and put the cryogenic tubes into the torpedoes. I assumed that I would be sent into war with what I had designed – surely, after all, if Admiral Marcus wanted me because I was 'both intelligent and savage', as he put it, then he would send me into the fight.

But when I said as much – which I really should have done before leaping to such stupid conclusions – he told me that I was going to be staying on the ground.

Needless to say, I... objected.


End file.
